


Pine

by Demerite



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Character, Clint is an idiot, Darcy is Amazing, Deaf Character, Gratuitous Swearing, M/M, Masturbation, Mission Fic, Not Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Compliant, Pining, Resolved Romantic Tension, Sexual Content, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:54:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1575986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demerite/pseuds/Demerite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton has been in a tree for 14 hours. Then Phil Coulson turns up. Clint had plans, but the universe has other plans, and the universe always wins. Somehow, CLint manages to make the best of it anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tree

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-write of the unmitigated disaster that was "Tree", my first ever Phil/Clint fic, which has developed into this multi-fic arc which is still in progress. Enjoy.

_Well, screw this,_ Clint Barton thinks, resting his bow against his hip and stretching, trying to get the kinks out of his back. It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t. He’s been up this tree for a ridiculous amount of time, and the target still hasn’t shown, so god knows when he’ll be able to get back on solid ground again. Which, honestly, was all he wants to do right now. Because believe it or not, Clint Barton is not a fan of waiting around. He gets bored easily, and when he’s bored, he tends to do things specifically targeted at upsetting his handlers. This is a known fact, which is why he only has one handler these days, Agent Phil Coulson. And alright, that calls into question a whole lot of regulations about agents and handlers not working too many missions together in case a bond starts to form, but it had gotten to the point where Clint had sent every other handler who worked with him to the psych department at least once, so Fury had just sighed, muttered something unrepeatable, and assigned Coulson to all of Clint’s mission from then on in. Except it seemed, for this one. 

This time, they’d given him some guy who Clint’s never met before, and already dislikes immensely. Surely, they should know that giving him someone other than Coulson can only end badly, but apparently someone had missed the memo, and he’s stuck with Agent White, who clearly hasn’t read his file, and had actually attempted to get Clint to maintain radio silence, which is hilarious, because if there’s something Clint never does on these long boring missions, it’s maintain radio silence. He just doesn’t. He chats away, making smartass comments on anything and everything he can see, he talks about the latest cafeteria gossip from S.H.I.E.L.D., sometimes, he even sings if he bored enough. Coulson has learned to put up with it. 

So, he does his level best to drive Agent White up the wall with his constant chatter. He’s been doing it for a while now, talking about whatever he can think of in a steady, stream-of-consciousness kind of way. “No but seriously,” he says, continuing on from his previous point, “Who thought putting a sniper up here was a good idea? There are pine needles everywhere, I smell like freaking Christmas, and this thing _moves_. How am I meant to take the goddamn shot when I’m being tossed about like a ship in a storm?” He could make the shot. He already knew that he could. He’s taken shots on boats, even boats in storms before too, and he hasn’t missed yet, but since White obviously hasn’t done his reading, Clint is enjoying messing with the other agent. It’s not as if he has anything more important to do while he waits for his target to show, and he needs to alleviate the boredom somehow. 

He’s up this stupid tree with nothing but bottled water and some protein bars that taste like dusty cardboard and regret. There are caffeine pills stashed in one of his pockets - and Coulson would have a fit if he knew Clint had _those_ with him - and of course, his bow, resting lightly in his grip. Nothing much to entertain himself with.

Of course, it’s at this moment that the wind, which has been shaking the tree all afternoon intensifies, making Clint grab for a branch to maintain his balance. He panics for a second, gloved hand slipping on the bark, but then his fingers dig in, and he rights himself. Not that he needs to worry about falling, he has a harness and ropes to prevent that, but he’d rather not slip and end up hanging from the aforementioned safety equipment, since that means having to climb back up again, and while it would help pass the time, falling and being caught by a harness is _painful_. Clint knows that. He’s had experience with it. 

He’s just gotten himself comfortable and is starting in on what is going to be a spectacular rendition of ‘Defying Gravity’, when he feels the first few cold, wet drops against his face. “Fuck off.” He mutters crossly as more raindrops start to fall. It’s not light rain either, but big, heavy drops of water that come pelting through the pine needles, soaking into his clothing in seconds, leaving him uncomfortably damp. With the windchill a factor as well, Clint prays his target turns up soon - he has no desire to end up hypothermic just because of a mission. He began to sing again, and the wind howled louder, almost as if it was retaliating. A barrage of icy rain stung his face, and he wiped it away aggressively, trying to stop the droplets before they ran down his shirt. Not that it would matter at his point, he was already cold, soaked and thoroughly over this entire mission. What he wanted most was to get out of the tree, eat some real food, have a hot shower and then go to bed, preferably with - Clint cut himself off, refusing to let that thought complete itself. He’d promised himself he’d stop doing that, thinking about someone he coldn’t have. _Pining,_ Natasha called it, laughing at him and rolling her eyes. Clint would deny that he was pining with every fibre of his being, even if he knew Natasha was right, because pining was not his style.

He’s up the tree for another hour before he spots his target. He’s surrounded by his hired muscle, but none of them have any long-range weaponry, so Clint knows he’s safely out of range. He watches them through his scope, making sure that there’s nothing that could prove an issue for him. There isn’t. 

“I have the target in my sights.” He says into his mic, voice lowered, even though he knows his target can’t hear him, “Permission to fire?”

 

“Permission granted.” Comes the reply, and Clint draws in a sharp breath, because the voice on the other end of the line isn’t Agent White’s nasally tone, it’s a far more familiar voice, one that makes his mouth turn up at the corners into a smile. 

“Thank-you Sir, and hello to you too.” He says in response, and he can imagine the expression on Coulson’s face, because it’s the expression he has every time Clint sasses him, a mix of exasperation and almost-concealed amusement. It’s Clint’s favourite expression on the other man. 

Clint takes a deep breath, looking down his scope - and dear god does he hate that thing but he needs it to see this kind of distance - and watching his target carefully. He’s a small, untidy looking man in a white labcoat and glasses. If Clint hadn’t seen his face, he could have been forgiven for mistaking that man for Dr. Banner. Hard to think that this guy is one of the biggest threats to global security S.H.I.E.L.D. has seen since Loki. Clint’s aim wavers at the thought, and he clenches his fist, mentally berating himself. He needs to focus, he has a job to do here, now is no time to be getting stuck in the past, damnit. 

Another steadying breath, and Clint has an arrow in his grip, nocking it to the bowstring and drawing back in a motion easy and familiar as breathing. His fingers brush against his cheek, and arrow held at full draw, and he holds his breath, calculating for the wind, rain, and movement of the tree. Then he fires, an anticlimactic occurrence really given all the build-up, all the tense waiting and watching that has gone into this shot. It’s always this way. 

With a satisfaction that is almost vicious, Clint sees his arrow find it’s mark, sees his target fall, unmoving to the ground. Already turning away, Clint flicks the little button built into the grip of his bow. He doesn’t even wait to watch the explosion, already knowing exactly how wide it will blow, and that there’s no chance any trace of his presence will be left on the body. Which is the whole point, of course. 

Clint sails downwards on his rappel line, to tired to be bothered climbing. Now that the job is done, he can feel the adrenaline wearing off, and he’s feeling exhausted and shaky, and the tree is slippery with rain and being battered by winds still, and again with the falling into the harness thing. Finally, his feet strike the ground and for the first time in over eight hours, he’s standing on something that isn’t moving. Naturally, the muscles in his legs choose this time to decide that they’re tired from countering the movement of a tree for the last eight hours, and give out on him, leaving him to collapse towards the ground. 

He doesn’t make it all the way down though, because someone catches him around the shoulders and pulls him back up, allowing him to learn against their shoulder and a delightfully familiar voice says, low in his ear, “No falling down on the job, Agent Barton.” 

Clint looks up. Coulson has an umbrella in one hand, opened up over himself, which Clint could have told him was redundant if he was going to be catching soaked field agents and holding onto them. 

“Guy’s dead.” Clint shoots back, because he always has to have the last word, “I’m off the clock.” 

Coulson just makes a slight humming noise and starts walking, and Clint has to either lean on him and follow, or let him leave and possibly collapse embarrassingly in the grass. He chooses to follow, obviously, as Coulson leads him towards a non-descript black car, clearly one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s many vehicles. 

“There are towels in the back seat,” Coulson informed him, “Dry off, I need to speak to Agent White and then I’ll give you a ride. Unless you’d prefer to go with him?”

Clint snorted, “Take all the time you need sir.” he says, opening the back door of the car and reaching for the first of several towels. There’s nothing dry for him to change into here, so he ends up just drying himself as best he can, and then sprawling, worn out, across the back seats of Coulson’s car. Given an inch, Clint is more inclined to take not only the inch itself, but a mile on top of it as well. 

From his - surprisingly comfortable - position, Clint can see Coulson and Agent White in discussion, and wow, Coulson does not look pleased. To most people, the man would probably just appear impassive, standing there with his hands clasped behind his back and speaking calmly, but Clint has worked with him for long enough to recognise the little things, and he knows that the other man is not impressed. Clint wonders why. The mission had gone off without a hitch, the target is dead, and while it might have meant Clint spent eight and a half hours in the tree instead of the predicted three, and possibly sent yet another handler to psych (Fury’s fault though), he was pretty sure things had gone rather well. 

Coulson returned to the car shortly after, sliding into the driver’s seat and starting the ignition. Clint, who is still sprawled across the back seats, doesn’t bother reaching for a seat belt. He’s saved the world, he doesn’t need to wear that nonsense. 

“Where are we headed?” Clint asks, sitting up to towel his hair dry and watch Coulson in the rear vision mirror. 

“Back to base.” Coulson replies, not even glancing back at him, “The drive’ll take a few hours, you should probably get comfortable.” 

Clint nods, and then realises that Coulson knows exactly how long the drive is because he’s already done it today to come and get Clint. 

“Why did you come and get me sir?” He questions, relaxing along the seats once more, back propped against the passenger-side door and legs kicked up on the seats, “I mean, I was meant to head back with White when the chopper turned up.” 

“You were giving the poor man hell on the comms,” Coulson pointed out, “He has a short enough temper as it is and I didn’t want you suspended for punching him once you got back on the ground. Also, that mission was supposed to be three hours at maximum, I figured once it had gone for six hours things were getting excessive.” 

“Aw, sir,” Clint teases, “You come to rescue me?” 

Coulson makes a noise that is amused, not quite a laugh, but definitely amused. It’s the closest thing to a laugh Clint ever manages to coax out of him. “More like I was saving Agent White from you.” He replies smartly, “I know full well how you get on long ops.”

 

“This wasn’t long.” Clint points out, tipping his head back against the window. Going three days over the mission brief is long, not five and a half hours. 

“It was long enough.” Coulson responds, and Clint can near the faint note of annoyance in his voice, although weather that annoyance is directed towards Clint or at someone else, he is unable to tell. 

Clint makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, too tired to really be concerned about it. He drifts off the sleep to the movement of the car, the patter of rain on the windows, and the sound of Coulson reminding him to put his seat belt on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint should indeed be wearing his seat belt. Please always wear your seat belt when in a moving vehicle.


	2. Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint is a bit of an adiot, but at least he can blame it on poor self control. Or something.

Clint wakes some time later to the sounds of Coulson in conversation with someone. He stretches, easily, working out the kinks in his neck, and tunes in. It’s Hill, he discovers almost immediately, her voice sounding frustrated through the speakers of the car’s communication system. 

“-Full lockdown until we get it worked out,” She’s saying. 

“Stark and Banner?” Coulson asks, half-sighing. 

“Stark and Banner.” She confirms, “Again. I’ll contact you when the lockdown is lifted.”

Coulson acknowledges her and closes the channel, looking over his shoulder at Clint. “You get that?”

“Yeah.” Clint replies, dragging a hand through his still-damp hair. “Lockdown, Stark and Banner’s fault, which means Stark, really.” He knows there’s not much chance of them getting back to base before tomorrow really. He wonders if he can convince Coulson to drop him all the way home, or if he’ll have to call a cab at some point tonight. If it’s the latter, he’s making S.H.I.E.L.D. foot the bill. “Where we off to now, sir?” Clint asks. 

“Home.” Coulson tells him, “You can stay at my place tonight, if you’re alright with it,that is.” 

The last part is delivered more like a question, and Clint is surprised to realise that Coulson is asking his permission. “Sure,” he shrugs, “I’m cool with the sofa.” Mentally, he resigns himself a night on an uncomfortable sofa instead of his own mattress. 

“I have a spare room.” Coulson points out, and Clint can practically hear the eyeroll that Coulson is too dignified to actually execute. 

 

***

He drifts off again, half-dozing leant up against the door, and wakes when the car pulls up outside a phenomenally normal looking house in the middle of an equally normal looking street. It’s dark outside, streetlamps providing pools of light on the sidewalk. Clint slides out of the car stretching his arms above himself and groaning at the way muscles pop and joints click back into place. He grabs his bow and the pile of towels, and follows Coulson inside the house, arms wrapped around the piles of things, because one, it’s quite a pile and he doesn’t want to drop anything, and two, it’s freezing out here. 

Inside, Coulson directs Clint down the hall and into what is obviously the spare bedroom. It’s small and neat, just a double bed and a chest of drawers. There’s a desk and chair underneath the window, and Clint is sure that at some point, Coulson will want him to sit there and fill out his mission report. Great. 

“Bathroom’s down the hall.” Coulson explains, gesturing perhaps a little awkwardly, “I’ll make something to eat. You hungry?”

Clint nods, “I’ve been existing on protein bars for the last nine hours, real food sounds amazing.” He dumps his collection of things down on the desk, and Coulson snags the towels on his way out. Clint has a moment to check over all his gear, even if he is fully aware that everything is in order. It’s habit at this point, his way of coming down out of mission headspace - to go from being Agent Barton to being Clint again. 

He loosens the straps on his climbing harness, stepping out of it and examining the buckles and straps for damage. The o-ring on the left side has pine needles caught in it, and he tugs them out with an expression of distaste. The rest of the harness is clear and undamaged, so he lays it out neatly on the desk, and tugs off his gloves.

His bow is next, and Clint checks it over with as much care as possible, running his hands over the weapon to check both with his eyes and by touch for any damage. He’s had a bow break on him before because he didn’t check it properly, and not having a weapon for a few minutes until he got his hands on a gun had taught him to make sure that his equipment was in perfect condition all the time. 

Satisfied that his equipment is undamaged, Clint sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls off his boots, kicking them into the middle of the floor. At least his boots, unlike his gloves, have actually kept his feet dry, even if they’ve failed as far as keeping them _warm_ goes. 

There’s a light tap on the doorframe, and Coulson has returned, holding more towels, and some clothing. 

“It might not fit,” he says, “But it’s dry.” 

Clint smiles, gets up and takes the clothing with a word of thanks, before padding down the hall to the bathroom, which turns out to be surprisingly spacious. There’s even a lock on the door, which Clint slides shut the moment he notices it. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Coulson, he does, implicitly, but if he locks the door, he’ll feel safe taking out his hearing aids while he showers. 

Door locked, hearing aids resting by the sink, Clint runs the shower, stripping out of his soaked clothes and leaving them in a messy pile on the floor. He can deal with them later he decides, now he wants to shower, get clean and warm again. _And,_ he thinks with a glance downwards, _attend to some other matters as well._ It’s totally not his fault that he’s hard right now, except for the part where it totally is, and he’s officially going to hell for this alone. Seriously, he’s not a teenager dealing with his first crush anymore, he should be able to control himself, but apparently his body has other ideas. He’s going to blame it on how tired he is. His control is lacking.

With a shrug, Cling steps under the hot water, letting out a low groan as it flows over his shoulders and down his back. The water is just this side of too hot, and he knows that he’ll be bright red by the time he’s done, but at least it will serve to his the blush he knows he’ll have from...other things. 

Groaning in frustration, Clint takes his cock in hand, starting up a fast, careless rhythm. He doesn’t have time to draw this out, even thought he’d like nothing more to do just that. It’s been too long, he thinks, tightening his grip a little and biting back on a moan. He has to be quiet, half-terrified that Coulson will walk past the bathroom and somehow catch him in the act, even though there’s no way he can be heard over the running water and through the closed door. 

It’s not like he’d started out wanting to be attracted to someone at S.H.I.E.L.D. especially not his collected, professional handler, but that’s just how things worked out. Clint should really have known that he was screwed from day one, looking at this man who was so utterly unruffled by his bad behaviour and flagrant disregard for protocol and regulations. Even then, Clint had simply thought that Coulson was attractive and that maybe one day he’d like to get the man out of that suit. Of course, that had been before Coulson had proved that he could not only handle Clint, but discipline him as well. The first time Coulson had simply looked at him and made it plain as day in only a few words that Clint’s behaviour had been unacceptable, Clint knew that he was utterly fucked. That had been two and a half years ago, and Clint is _still_ head-over-heels, utterly stupid in love. And lust. Turns out the two are not necessarily mutually exclusive. 

With a frustrated groan, Clint braces one hand against the tiled shower wall, jerking his chock harder as he nears orgasm. He comes with Coulson’s name on his lips and his eyes closed, completely closed off from the outside world, and for a moment he just stands there, letting the water wash over him and feels quietly ashamed for a few more minutes, before he realises how long he’s been standing there. 

It’s not until he’s turned off the water, towelled himself dry and put his hearing aids back in and can hear the sound of water running in the kitchen and vegetables being cut that he realises - Coulson will have heard all of that. He blushes, and is once more thankful for how hot the water was as he dresses, the clothing almost too small for him, but not quite. It’s just sweatpants and a T-shirt, but like Coulson said, all of it’s dry, and anything dry is an improvement from his own damp clothing. 

Clint drops the towels in the laundry basket in the corner of the bathroom, and carries his own clothing back to the spare room, where he hangs it out over the back of a chair to dry. He takes special care to ensure he has everything with him, not wanting to forget a thing in case he has to come back and pick it up, because let’s face it, if anyone were to do something as cliched as that, it would be him. 

Before he goes to find Coulson, Clint takes a moment to flop backwards onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, deep in thought. He needs to get a hold of himself, he really does, especially since he’s in Coulson’s house, with Coulson, having just jerked off in the other man’s shower thinking about him. But, Clint decides, he can totally go out there and act like a normal human being. Yeah, absolutely. 

He’s so fucked.


	3. The Terrors Beneath Your Pillow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint should have knwn that he wasn't going to get a peaceful night's sleep in Coulson's house.

As soon as he enters the kitchen, Clint can smell something delicious. Coulson is standing at the opposite bench, chopping something on a wooden cutting board. He’s changed out of his suit into slightly faded jeans and a soft-looking black sweater, and Clint has to clench his fists to resist the urge to go over there and pin Coulson against that bench and kiss him breathless. But he’s made himself a promise about self-control, and also there’s the stupid SHIELD fraternisation policy that gets in the way of that. And the little fact that Coulson probably isn’t even interested in men, let alone in Clint. 

Instead, he just says “Hey, need a hand?” And walks over to the stove to investigate what Coulson is cooking. He discovers a large pot of spaghetti, and a smaller one of sauce, simmering away. 

“It’s fine.” Coulson tells him, “But thanks anyway.” Clint shrugs, secretly glad that Coulson turned down his offer of help. He knows he’s an awful cook, Natasha has told him so at great length many times. He sits at the kitchen table and watches as Coulson moves around the kitchen, clearly at ease in the space, preparing dinner. 

A few minutes later, Coulson puts a large salad bowl on the table, and a short time after that, he places a plate of spaghetti and sauce in front of Clint and sits down opposite him. 

They debrief over dinner, Clint twirling the spaghetti around his fork and dictating his report to Coulson, because both of them know that Clint functions better verbally than he does on paper, which Clint finds hilariously ironic, considering how well he doesn’t hear. Coulson doesn’t seem to mind however, and he listens as Clint delivers the report in a few short sentences - it’s not as if anything in particular happened - and when Clint’s plate is empty, pushes the salad bowl towards him. 

Clint mock-complains at Coulson’s attempt to make him eat healthily, but he serves himself some anyway, eating everything except the red pepper, which he leaves in a neat little pile. There’s not much he won’t eat - a side effect of growing up hungry - but he’s never been able to stand red pepper. 

After dinner, Clint insists on doing the dishes, because hey, Coulson cooked, and he’s also letting Clint stay over. 

“I wasn’t about to leave you there.” Coulson points out, finishing clearing the table. 

“I do have my own place, you know.” 

Dishes done, Clint excuses himself to bed. It’s not hugely late, but he’s feeling sleepy, tired from a long tense day and having eaten a proper hot meal. He knows if he stays awake around Coulson for much longer, he’ll do something incredibly stupid like let his feelings for the other man slip, and that...that would be bad. 

So he tells Coulson goodnight, and manages to return his smile when Coulson glances up from where he’s working on something on his laptop, and then he heads back down the hall to the spare bedroom. He just needs eight solid hours of sleep and he’ll be good to face anything once more. 

Of course, that’s too much to ask, he struggles to get to sleep, tossing and turning in the bed and ending up staring at the ceiling while he muses. He considers calling Nat, knowing that she’ll be awake since it’s not that late and as far as he knows, she isn’t on a mission, but decides against it in the end. She’ll just laugh at him, and he’s not in the mood to be laughed at. 

Eventually he drifts off the sleep, curled up on his side under the blankets. His sleep however, isn’t as peaceful as he’d hoped for it to be. 

_The bow feels like the most natural thing to have in his hand, an extension of himself, yet at the same time like the most alien thing he has ever touched, unbalanced and strange and wrong. His mind is buzzing, a faint hum in the background, and he can’t seem to control his movements, his slightly jerky steps towards the tall pine tree standing alone on the hill._

_He reaches the tree and starts to climb, feeling the bark under his bare hands. He has no harness, and he’s terrified that he’ll fall, but he doesn’t, he just keeps climbing, under the control of something or someone else._

_He’s at the stop of the tree now, looking down on disturbingly familiar territory, bow in hand, waiting._

_He doesn’t have to wait long._

__

_A figure appears below him, clad in a white lab coat with thick untidy hair and glasses falling down his nose. Clint reaches for his bow even as he identifies the man below him as friend, not foe, and shouts at him to stop. But it’s no use, the arrow is on the string and the bow is raised, the arrow pointing straight and true at the man below him._

__

_Clint wants to shout out a warning, wants to do something, anything, to let Bruce know that he’s in danger, but he can’t, he can’t make a sound, all he can do is aim and fire, and watch in mute horror as the arrow streaks away._

__

_Even at this distance, his aim is good, of course it is, it’s his job to have good aim, he hasn’t missed before, and he doesn’t miss now. Bruce falls without a sound, probably dead before his body even touches the grass, and Clint can only stand there in the branches on the tree and watch in utter silence. ___

_And that’s when the laughter starts up, low and mocking somewhere behind him. He wants to turns around to confront the man who is laughing, the man he now knows is controlling him, but he still can’t move. But really, he doesn’t have to. He won’t be forgetting that laugh anytime soon._

__

_Loki._


	4. Chase Away the Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson should know how dangerous it is to wake sleeping agents, regardless of nightmares.

Agent Phil Coulson is a light sleeper, something he’s always found useful in his line of work, so it’s no surprise to him when he wakes to a shout of fear from the guest room down the hall from his own bedroom. He clicks on his bedside light, and sits up in bed, listening intently. The first shout is followed by a second, and he slides out of bed, leaving his room and padding down the hallway towards the guest room. 

He stops outside the door, listening once more. If everything is quiet, he’s not going to wake Clint. This may just be a one-off thing. It isn’t, another shout emanates from behind the door, followed by a low stream of half-mumbled profanity. The overtone of everything however is fear. 

Coulson cracks open the door, peering into the room. His eyes adjust to the low light easily, and he can see Clint on the bed now. The other Agent is tossing and turning, clearly in the grip of a dream of some sort. He’s cursing, lashing out and whimpering in fear. 

“Like hell.” Clint snarls, thrashing wildly, “Let me go you bastard!”

Whatever the dream is, it isn’t healthy, Coulson can see, and he knows he has to wake Clint as quickly as possible. 

He flicks on the light. 

“Agent Barton.” He says, using the voice he reserves for when things go about as far south as they can go, and he needs the agents under his command to focus, “Agent Barton, wake up.” It’s not a request, it’s an order, and Clint responds, either to his voice or to the light or to both, immediately, and Coulson doesn’t have time to ponder what exactly is it that woke Clint, because the agent has a knife in his hand and has thrown it, with deadly accuracy, at Coulson’s head. 

Coulson sidesteps the knife neatly, having half been expecting it or something similar. The knife lodges itself in the door frame, quivering slightly. Coulson just raises an eyebrow and removes the knife, placing it on the desk on his way over to the bed. He stops a little way short of it, not wanting to crowd Clint this soon after he’s woken up. 

“Agent Barton?” he asks, then, pitching his voice softer, “Clint?” 

Clint blinks, his vision seeming to clear, and looks up at Coulson, his eyes widening almost comically in surprise. “Fuck.” he mutters, looking sideways at the clock on the nightstand, which has the time at something between 2:30 and three am. “Sorry for waking you sir.” he says, softly, drawing his knees up to his chest, almost like a barrier between the two of them. 

Coulson brushes off his apology, “It’s fine. You’re hardly the first agent to wake me like that.” 

“Natasha?” 

“Natasha.” Coulson confirms, wincing slightly at the memory. Not only had she thrown a knife at him, but she’d broken his nose when he got within punching range. 

“Ouch.” Clint says simply, even though Coulson hasn’t explained what had happened. Clearly where Natasha is concerned, he doesn’t need to. 

“Which mission was it?” Coulson asks quietly. He doesn’t want to pressure Clint on the matter, but he knows that if he can get the other agent to talk about it, he’ll get back to sleep easier. It’s mostly likely a mission that is troubling Clint, he’s seen enough of the really rough ones to never want to sleep again, honestly. 

“Not a mission.” Clint replies, shaking his head and hunching in on himself. “Loki.” 

Coulson knows. He knows right away. Clint described it to him once, late one night on a mission. They’d run out of things to talk about some time ago, and finally, with his hands shaking slightly, Clint had made his way around to this topic, explaining to Coulson exactly what it was like to be controlled by someone else, to lose all autonomy, to have to watch as you worked against your own friends, as you fought them, even tried to kill them. 

“Oh.” He says. he isn’t going to apologise, he knows Clint will shut him out if he tries. He watches Clint out of the corner of his eye, and notes that he’s shivering, even under the blankets. “Cold?” he asks, and Clint nods a little jerkily, wrapping his arms around himself. 

Colson gets up and gets one of the spare blankets from the wardrobe, spreading it over the bed and tucking it around Clint, who tugs it more securely around himself, fingers wrapping around the edge of it and holding on tight. 

“Better?” Coulson asks after a short while. 

Clint shakes his head, and Coulson can see the shivers still coursing through his body. He’s not sure if Clint is actually cold, or if he’s still struggling with the aftereffects of the nightmare, but the best way to remedy it is the same. He just wishes he wasn’t feeling so happy about having to do it. 

“Move over a bit.” He suggests, and Clint gives him a suspicious look for a moment, before moving over, leaving enough space for him in the double bed. “One moment.” Coulson tells him, quickly crossing the room to turn off the light once more. 

He returns to the bed and carefully slides under the blankets next to Clint, lying close enough to touch him, but not initiating any serious contact out of fear that Clint will feel trapped and be unable to sleep. Gradually, he feels Clint relax, the shivering subsiding and his breathing becoming regular and deep as he drifts off to sleep.


	5. The Morning After the Night Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Coulson wake up in a _slightly ___compromising position.

Clint wakes with the distinct impression that he isn’t alone. His head is resting on something that is warm and moves slightly, in a pattern that matches breathing. Clint has woken up in bed with other people plenty of times, is used to the awkward morning after conversation, the smalltalk over coffee and burnt toast, but he’s not entirely sure how he’s going to explain to Coulson how some guy’s turned up in his house and- hold on. 

He’s in Coulson’s house. Clint sits up in bed in a explosion of movement, starting wide-eyed at Coulson, who is awake and alert the moment he moves, staring back at him before glancing around the room, clearly checking for danger. 

“What?” Clint says, a little stupidly, because forgive him, but this is more than a little unusual. He distinctly recalls going to bed on his own last night, and yet now Coulson is lying next to him, giving him a curious look. Clint notes that both of them are still fully clothed, and he’s not sure if he’s pleased about it or not. On one hand, they clearly didn’t do anything, but on the other, he can’t remember a lot about last night yet, so possibly it’s for the best. 

“You had a nightmare.” Coulson tells him, simply stating the facts. 

“Ah.” Clint can tell he’s blushing. Typical him, have a nightmare the one night he’s staying with Coulson. It’s starting to come back to him, the dream about being under Loki’s control, how Loki had made him kill his teammates, his friends. Coulson coming into the room and waking him and Clint- “Shit, I threw a knife at you, didn’t I?” Clint asks, embarrassed. 

Coulson just shrugs, as if he’s not bothered by it, and relaxes back against the headboard, seeming to be perfectly at ease with the entire situation.

“You did.” He says, “But what kind of agent would I be if I let it hit me?”

“Fair point.” Clint nods, knowing that Coulson is just being nice, but being thankful for it all the same. He’s gonna feel bad about this on his own later, he knows. 

For a few moments, they just look at each other, Clint feeling more and more like a specimen under a microscope and the time ticks by. Eventually, Coulson sighs heavily and says simply, “I’ve made a mess of this.” 

“Depends on what you define as ‘made a mess of’.” Clint replies, flashing a cheeky grin. He’s trying the suppress the feeling of hope bubbling up inside him. This can’t be what he thinks it is can it? A horrible thought strikes him. What if Coulson thinks that them sharing a bed like this has somehow damaged their professional relationship, and wants to stop working with Clint? 

“Don’t do that.” Coulson says softly, and Clint isn’t sure if he caught a hint of sadness at the edge of the other man’s smile of if his brain is making up shit. “I know that’s not you.” Coulson adds. 

Clint knows instantly what he’s talking about. The way Clint is utterly shit at dealing with feelings like a mature human being. The way he tries to act like nothing is wrong and nothing ever affects him. If anyone could see through it in a heartbeat, Clint thinks, it would be Coulson. The man has a way when it comes to Clint, he can always see right through his bullshit. 

Clint waits for Coulson to continue, and when he doesn’t immediately say anything, Clint prompts him with, “Made a mess of what?”

“This.” Coulson makes a back-and-forth gesture between the two of them, “Us.” He adds in a softer voice, eyes turning serious. 

Clint isn’t sure how to feel. He freezes for a moment, trying to work out if Coulson means the ‘us’ in a professional context or in a more personal one. Unfortunately - or possibly not - his mouth doesn’t get the memo to shut up, and he asks, “As in ‘us’ together? As in, _together_ together?”

Coulson snorts a laugh. “Now that we’ve reaffirmed that you’re a fifth grader, yes.” 

Clint grins, bright and happy. “Nah,” he says, “No mess.” And then he does the only thing that makes sense to him, he leans in and kisses Coulson hard on the mouth. 

It’s only meant to be a brief kiss, giving Coulson the chance to change his mind and back out of this, but when Clint goes to move away, Coulson grabs the front of his T-Shirt and drags him back in, kissing him fiercely, which is lucky, because Clint is just starting to panic that he might have made the wrong call and fucked it all up. 

Obviously, he hasn’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Clint is secretly a fifth-grader. I thought that this was obvious.


	6. Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things progress. Natasha has an eye for tables. Coulson shouldn't be surprised about the things Clint knows anymore. Clint shouldn't be so sure of himself.

Phil Coulson kisses in the same manner he does everything else, intent, focused and very, very thoroughly. Clint is left breathless in a ridiculously short space of time, and Coulson, damn him, has the audacity to smirk about it. 

The expression looks good on him. In fact, Coulson looks good full-stop right about now. His hair is ruffled and his lips are red from kissing and there’s a faint flush on his cheeks. Clint likes this look on him, and he fervently hopes that he gets to see more of it. In fact, he makes himself a promise that if Coulson isn’t against it, Clint’s going to make him look like this a lot. 

“Breakfast?” Coulson suggests, smiling lazily. 

Clint makes an unwilling noise, “Can’t I just stay here and kiss you?” He wants to know, “I mean, I Only just found out I could probably have been doing this ages ago, I think there’s some catching up to do here.” 

Coulson huffs a laugh, and gets up from the bed, leaning back down to kiss Clint lightly and then pull him up as well. Clint protests, although only mildly because he knows full well what Coulson is capable of when it comes to making unwilling individuals go places, and slides out of bed. He’d rather stay in bed a little longer, but if Coulson is suggesting breakfast, well, Clint can work with breakfast. 

Clint follows Coulson out of the bedroom and down the hall back to the kitchen. 

“Pancakes?” He suggests, because he knows that Coulson will tell him it’s unhealthy. 

“Sure.” Coulson replies, “Pass me the flour? Top shelf on the right.” He gestures to the cupboard behind Clint. 

Clint finds the flour, and fetches and carries other ingredients for Coulson for the next few minutes while the other man mixes pancake batter in a big bowl. At one point, Clint leans in to kiss Coulson - just because he can and he wants to - and ends up with flour on his shirt. Not that he minds though, it’s totally worth a little flour. 

Finally, after what feels like ages - but it probably only about ten minutes - the pancakes are ready. There’s coffee, too, and Clint adds cream and sugar to his, causing Coulson to raise an eyebrow at him. 

“What?” Clint asks, grinning. 

Coulson just shakes his head, smiling fondly, and takes his coffee black. 

“Clint finally takes an actual bite of pancake, and his eyes go wide. “Oh my fucking god!” He exclaims, “There are amazing!” 

Coulson, to his credit, blushes slightly,and ducks his head. He looks up to see that Clint has his phone out and is taking a picture of the plateful of pancakes. 

“What are you doing?” Coulson wants to know. 

“Teasing Nat.” Clint replies, sending the picture. Moments later, he gets a reply. _1\. Fuck you. 2. Is that Coulson’s table?_ Clint sighs, unsurprised that Natasha can identify a table, of course she can, and tells her that it is indeed Coulson’s table.. 

“You sure that’s a good idea?” 

“Nope.” 

They finish breakfast in comfortable silence, Clint’s bare foot nudging against Coulson’s shin, and Coulson mock-glaring at him when Clint attempts to steal some of his pancakes. It’s a delightfully normal tableau, except for the fact that under normal circumstances, Clint would be at home, eating Fruit Loops out of the box in his pajamas and drinking the possibly-expired orange juice in his fridge. Instead, he’s eating the best damn pancakes he can recall having, with Coulson, in Coulson’s kitchen. It’s definitely an improvement. A big one. 

When they’ve nearly finished the meal, Coulson’s phone chirps, and when he reads the message on it, Clint can see the minute change in his expression. 

“Something wrong?” He asks, setting down his coffee, already tensing up, ready for something to happen. 

Coulson collects his plate from the table, “We’ve been called in.” He tells Clint, collecting Clint’s plate as well. “Fury wants your full report

Clint pulls a face, “Didn’t you already get that?” he complains. 

Coulson just shoos him out of the kitchen with a quick kiss, suggesting that he should probably get dressed, because like it or not, they’re heading to HQ as soon as the dishes are done and they’re both dressed. 

Smiling, Clint slips back into the spare room to dress, pulling on his gear from yesterday. It’s dry, but he’d much rather be wearing something that’s properly clean. He finds pine needles under the collar, and has to stop and laugh lightly at that. It seems like the damn things aren’t going to leave him alone anytime soon. 

Dressed, with all of his gear collected, Clint makes his best effort at straightening the blankets on the bed to make it look neat, and switches off the light one his way out. There’s a deep gouge in the doorframe that Clint knows he put there last night. He winces. He’s going to have to fix that at some point. 

When Clint returns to the kitchen, Coulson is waiting, having dressed in one of his suits, and Clint rejoices in the fact that he doesn’t have to feel guilty about eyeing him anymore. He follows Coulson out of the front door to the car, dumping his gear in the back seat, and sliding into the passenger seat. 

Clnt assumes the drive to HQ will be quiet, or perhaps filled with polite small talk, so he’s surprised when, as soon as they’re on the road, Coulson glances over at him and says, “There are things we ought to discuss.” 

Clint’s head snaps up, and the first thought going through his find is that Coulson has changed his mind about them, even if Clint isn’t sure what ‘they’ are yet, if they’re anything. What if Coulson isn’t interested? But Clint tells his mind to shut the hell up, because if Coulson wasn’t interested, he wouldn’t have let Clint kiss him the multiple time he has so far. That wouldn’t make sense. 

“Yeah?” Clint asks, trying to keep his voice neutral, and knowing that he’s failing spectacularly at it. 

Coulson catches it, of course he does, the man is a like a ninja when it comes to not letting Clint slips stuff by him, and he gives Clint a look. Clint isn’t entirely sure what that look is supposed to mean, but then Coulson takes one hand off the wheel and squeezes Clint’s arm in a manner Clint thinks is meant to be reassuring. 

“About us,” Coulson explains, “And work.” 

And it all comes crashing back in around him. The fraternisation policy. Fuck. Clint had forgotten about that particular thing this morning, when he kissed Coulson, and now he’s being reminded of it in the worst possible way. 

“Fuck.” Clint mutters crossly, “So while we’re at work…”

“Including missions where we may be observed.” Coulson puts in, not at all helpfully, in Clint’s mind. 

“We have to act like nothing’s changed.” Clint says, morose, “Like we’re not…” he trails off, he doesn’t really know what they are, he’s not going to be the one to slap a label on it. 

“Seeing each other?” Coulson suggests, and when Clint looks over at him from where he’s been staring out of the window, he’s surprised to note that Coulson is blushing slightly, focusing on the road in front of him. “Or do you prefer the term ‘dating’?”

Clint smiles. “Either is fine by me,” He shrugs, “I mean who are we going to be telling, what with the fucking fraternisation policy?”

“I think ‘fucking’ is what the fraternization policy is trying to prevent.” Coulson points out, pulling into the parking garage. 

Clint makes a surprised sort of half-snort, half-laugh noise at that. The joke was not only amusing, but entirely unexpected, delivered as it is in Coulson’s dry tone. Coulson shoots him a mildly concerned look, which fades into a smile when he notes that Clint is in fact laughing, and not choking to death or anything similar. 

“Fury wants to see you right away.” He tells Clint, stopping the car in it’s marked spot (because yes, he does in fact have his own parking spot). 

“Right away as in before or after I put my gear away?” Clint asks, removing his seatbelt and grabbing the aforementioned gear from behind his seat. 

“Depends on how quickly you can stow gear.” Coulson points out, also getting out of the car. 

Clint follows him towards the elevators up into HQ proper. A short distance from the doors, Clint grabs Coulson by the sleeve and pulls him into the shadow of a support pillar. He tugs Coulson close by the lapels of his suit jacket and kisses him quickly, grinning against his lips, fraternisation policy be damned. 

When they part, Coulson gives him his best unimpressed face. “What was that?” He asks. 

“CCTV blindspot.” Clint grins. 

“I’m not going to ask how you know about that.” Coulson sighs, he’s about to step out of the shadow of the pillar when Clint snags him again, leaning in again, this time to murmur in his ear, 

“Have dinner with me tonight?” 

Coulson smiles, “What time? And where?”

Clint smiles back, his whole face lighting up, “My place? And just come over when you’re done here I guess?” He knows he’ll be home before Coulson can get there, he’s got a much shorter day today, so he’ll have time to actually sort something out for dinner. 

Coulson leans in and pecks him lightly on the lips, “I’ll see you tonight then.” He smiles, “Don’t be late for Fury.” 

Clint salutes him casually, and ducks out from behind the pillar, making for the pillar. Coulson follows a moment later. Neither of them notice the figure frozen behind the wheel of her vehicle a few rows back from their position.


	7. Gossip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For a group of agents dedicated to securing intelligence, S.H.I.E.L.D. is full of gossips, and rumour spreads incredibly fast." 
> 
> Normally, Clint enjoys this fact. Uses it to his own advantage even. Today however, he wishes everyone would shut up.

A hour and a half later, Clint is in the range, bow in hand, slamming arrows into a target with his usual accuracy. There range itself was deserted, most other agents choosing either to practice early in the morning, or after lunch. Not that Clint would have cared about there being other people there, but he’s glad of the solitude, he has a lot to think over, after all. 

Last night, he went to bed and had a nightmare about being enslaved by an evil alien mastermind, and this morning he woke up and after less than two hours, he’s dating Phil Coulson, the man he’s been lusting after for the past two and a half years. It’s a lot to get his head around. Clint is fully aware that in a short while, he’s going to start questioning all this, wondering if he’s imagining something, or if Coulson is regretting this, but right now, he refuses to let that happen. 

He’s only been shooting for half an hour when something hits him lightly in the back of the head. 

“Fuck off Nat.” He says, without turning around. There’s no venom in his voice however, and he hears Natasha laugh behind him, low and warm. He turns and she’s sitting on top of a storage cabinet, legs hanging down in front of her. She’s got a packet of trail mix in one hand, and when he looks down, he sees a sultana at his feet. Go figure. 

“So…” Natasha drawls, sliding down off the cabinet and following Clint down range as he goes to collect his arrows, “How was it?”

“How was what?” Clint asks, pulling an arrow from the target. 

“Sex.” Natasha says, removing an arrow from the target and whacking him lightly on the back of the head with it. He wouldn’t have tolerated that from anyone else, but she gets away with it because it’s her. “With Coulson. Idiot.” 

“Dunno.” Clint shrugs, “Didn’t have it.” 

“What?” Natasha stops hitting him with the arrow, and he takes the opportunity to take the arrow away from her. Clint loves Natasha like a sister - albeit a sister he used to have sex with and yeah, that’s as far as that analogy is going - but she can sure as hell piss him off sometimes. 

“You heard me.” He grumbles. 

“But why not?” She prods, grabbing another arrow from the target and jabbing him acusatorily in the side with it, “I mean, you’re obviously both into each other, and as far as I know also both into sex...so why not?”

Clint just shrugs again, collecting the last of the arrows and starting back up the range. 

“So what _did_ the pair of you do then?” Natasha asks, still unable to let it drop. At least she gives him the arrow she was poking him with back. 

“We slept together.” Clint relents, “As in actually slept. I think I snore. Do I snore?”

“Yep!” Calls a female voice from the doorway, “Loudly. At least, you do when you’re drunk. I can’t speak for other times.” A woman with dark hair and glasses strides in, grinning broadly. She’s wearing a S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform, with the jacket unzipped enough to show off some impressive cleavage. 

“Darce!” Clint greets her, setting his bow down just quickly enough for Darcy Lewis to run up to him and hug him so tightly he thinks he’s going to have trouble breathing without pain for the next week. 

“Is it true?” She asks once she’s let him go. 

“Is what true Darce?” Clint asks, starting to pack up his bow and arrows. Natasha, he can work around. Natasha and Darcy? Not a chance. 

“Are you sleeping with Coulson?” Darcy blurts out. 

Clint makes a surprised noise, and tries to cover it with a cough. Nat ruins it by bursting out laughing. Traitor. 

“What?” He finally manages to splutter. 

“It’s all over HQ.” Darcy says brightly, reaching over and stealing some of Natasha’s trail mix. Clint is surprised that she doesn’t try to take Darcy’s hand off. It’s what she’d do to him. 

“What?” he repeats, starting to feel a little like a broken record. 

“Yeah,” Darcy enthuses, “Agent Blake from records, she saw the two of you in the parking lot, and she says you were kissing, so yeah. Also, Nat said you spent the night at his place last night. Did you guys have sex, or-” At this point, Natasha puts a hand over Darcy’s mouth, cutting her off mid-sentence. 

Clint swears quietly, already starting to freak out slightly. Coulson is gonna be furious. Furious at him, since it it’s because of Clint’s stunt in the parking lot that they were seen, that the news has got out. By now, pretty much everyone in HQ probably knows about it, considering the rate that news spreads here. For a group of agents dedicated to securing intelligence, S.H.I.E.L.D. is _full_ of gossips, and rumour spreads incredibly fast. 

“What?’ Darcy asks, Natasha having released her, “What’s wrong Clint? Are you _not_ sleeping together?”

Clint groans, “We’re dating.” He managed, covering his face with his hands, “But no-one’s meant to know. Not here.” 

Natasha makes an understanding noise, “The fraternisation policy.” she explains to Darcy, “Expressly prohibits assets and their handlers from engaging in a romantic or sexual relationship.” 

“Well that’s rude.” Darcy says, folding her arms, “Also I think that’s a little old-fashioned, I mean, who cares who sleeps with who, so long as you get the job done it shouldn’t matter.” 

“Preaching the the choir here.” Clint mutters through his fingers. 

“I’ll talk to Fury.” Natasha states firmly. 

Clint’s head snaps up, “You think he’ll listen to you?” 

Natasha shakes her head, “Well, more accurately, I’ll talk to Hill, who’ll talk to Fury.” 

Clint nods. That makes more sense. If anyone is liable to be on their side in this, it’s Hill. Most people assume she’s as dedicated to the rules as Coulson himself is, but Clint knows for a fact that she views many of the policies and regulations that S.H.I.E.L.D. still clings to as outdated and in severe need of throwing out. 

Natasha leaves him then, tugging Darcy behind her. Darcy gives one last look back at Clint and asks him, “Do you need me to go and threaten Coulson? Because I will. I will threaten that shit out of that man.” She waves her taser threateningly, and Clint laughs. 

“He’s got one of those too!” He points out, going back to packing up his bow and arrows. It’s going to be a longer day than he expected.


	8. Just Rude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint likes missions. He even doesn't mind Russia, even if it's freezing and every time he tries to speak Russian Natasha laughs at him. What he doesn't like is when missions stop him from getting the one thing he wants.

Surprisingly, the rest of Clint’s day is unnervingly quiet. He mostly spends it checking in with people who he hasn’t seen since he went out on his latest mission, making sure he’s updated on all the gossip that’s been flying around in the days since he was last at HQ. That and he needs to reacquaint himself with the air vents. At around lunchtime, he slides out of the vent in Coulson’s office, finding the other man leaning over a pile of paperwork, as usual. 

“Lunch?” Clint asks, holding up the foam box he brought across from the cafeteria. 

Coulson smiles at him as if there aren’t all manner of rumours about the two of them circling HQ as they speak.

“Thanks.” He says, taking the container, and then adds, “I do have a door, you know.” 

“I know,” Clint replies, opening his own container and taking a bite of his lasagne. It’s surprisingly good. He forgets sometimes that the cafeteria food here actually isn’t that bad. One of the few perks of actually hanging around at HQ. 

They eat lunch together in companionable silence, and if anyone had looked in on them at that point, they wouldn’t have been able to pick anything out of the ordinary. Clint can often be found in Coulson’s office, at lunchtime or any other time of the day, normally on the low couch that has been there for about two years now, since he used to have a habit of just falling asleep on the floor of Coulson’s office post-mission. Coulson had finally taken pity on him and got a couch. 

Lunch finished, Clint gets up to leave Coulson’s office, planning on logging some more range time, before he heads home, but before he can reach for the door handle, the door opens and a clearly furious Natasha stalks in. 

Clint takes a step back from her on reflex alone, knowing that getting in the way on an angry Natasha is a surefire way to get punched in the face. Or worse. 

“Coulson.” Natasha grinds out, her voice low and dangerous, “Have you seen this?” She drops a file on Coulson’s desk. 

Utterly unphased, Coulson picks the file up, opens it and skims the contents. He raises an eyebrow, his version of Natasha’ fuming. “Not until now.” He says, his voice calm, but Clint can tell that it’s a studious type of calm, practiced and enforced, not natural. Coulson is not happy about something, and it seems to be the same something that’s making Nat furious, and Clint wants in. He leans over, trying to get a look at whatever’s in the file, but Coulson scoops it up before Clint can read anything of import, and maks for the door. 

“I’m going to have a word with Fury.” He states firmly, before leaving the room, closing the door firmly behind him. 

In the sudden silence, Clint turns to Natasha, confused face already firmly in place. “What?” he asks, not even bothering to phrase his question in a more elegant manner. Nat knows what he means. 

“Fury wants us in Russia.” She says, anger seeming to drain away a little replaced by frustration. 

Clint drops onto the couch, and Nat comes to sit with him, bumping her shoulder against his. 

“When does he want us there?” Clist questions. Russia wouldn’t suck _that much_ , he thinks. He’s pretty sure there’s no price on his head at the moment, and provided he doesn’t have to leave for a day or two, he can work with this. 

“We leave tonight.” Natasha says, that angry note creeping back into her voice, and CLint sits up straight from where he’s been starting to relax next to her. 

“Screw that.” He says angrily, getting to his feet, “Where’s Fury?”

“Clint!” Natasha calls him back, and he stops in the doorway, glancing back at her, “Coulson’s already talk to him. You know if anyone has a chance of changing his mind…”

“It’s him.” Clint sighs, deflating a little and returning to the couch. Now that he knows he has to leave tonight, he’s no longer enthused by the idea of going to Russia. He’d hoped to at least get the rest of the day and tonight off, enough time to have dinner with Coulson like they’d planned that morning. But of course, S.H.I.E.L.D. is ruining everything. He wonders for a moment why he’s still surprised by that. 

Clint makes a discontented noise, flopping sideways across the couch. Natasha moves about until his head is resting in her lap, and begins carding her fingers through his hair, her nails scraping gently. “What is it?” She asks softly, but no so softly that he has to strain to hear her voice. She’s considerate like that. “You’re not usually like this, even if you don’t want the mission, and I know you don’t mins Russia.” 

“I had a date.” Clint mutters darkly, “Focus on the _had_.” he adds, in case she doesn’t pick up on it the first time. 

“Coulson will understand.” Natasha points out, and he loves and hates her for it, because he knows that, damnit. “If anyone gets what this job is like, it’s him.” 

 

“I know.” Clint complains, pressing his head up into her touch a little, “But it still sucks. I can’t even do this right.” 

Natasha takes her hands away from Clint’s head then, and knees him in the shoulder. Hard. “Stop that.” She tells him, her voice firm, “Coulson understands, he’s been working here for long enough to get this. And you do not get to make statements about not doing things right, after all, it took him two years to do anything as far as you’re concerned.” 

“Hmmm.” Clint mumbles in assent, hoping that agreeing with Nat will stop her being mad at him and - hang on, “Two years?” He asks, sitting up and rubbing at his shoulder. That’s going to bruise. “Did you say _two years?_ ”

“Or thereabouts,” Natasha nods, playing it off as the most normal thing in the world. 

“So, since what, Venice?” 

“About that time. Or so Sitwell tells me.” She smiles broadly at the look of shock on Clint's face, “Coulson’s been complaining to him about the frat. policy and how entering a relationship with you would be in violation of it since then, anyway.” 

Clint splutters indignantly, “And you never thought to tell me this?” he demands, annoyed now. 

Natasha puts out her hands, palms out, “Sitwell insisted that it was best to let you two reach your own conclusion on your own.” She says placating. 

“Bullshit.” Clint mutters darkly, “I could have been making out with the hottest man employed by S.H.I.E.L.D. - shut up Nat - for two years, but thanks to you and Sitwell that time has now been wasted.” 

“Who’s wasting time?” Coulson asks, reentering his own office. Clint jumps, and pretends he didn’t. 

“No-one.” He lies. Coulson chooses to ignore it, although he can almost definitely tell that Clint isn’t being truthful. 

“Right.” Coulson tells the pair of them, handing out folders, “You fly out at 2000 hours tonight. The full briefing is in the info packet. I suggest you read it before you depart.”

Clint just groans and opens the folder.


End file.
